


presence

by ragnasok



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Hair Braiding, M/M, Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Sibling Incest, Thorki Valentine's Exchange 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 07:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13676847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragnasok/pseuds/ragnasok
Summary: After Ragnarok, Thor is tactile, always reaching out to the people around him to reassure himself they're still there. Especially Loki. It might be pleasant, if it didn't feel a little like distrust. Loki decides to take matters, and Thor, into his own hands.





	presence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eepz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eepz/gifts).



> This is a gift for the [Thorki Valentines Exchange](https://thorkievents.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. The prompt was _Thor getting lavished in bed by Loki_ , and that kind of collided with a headcanon I have about post-Ragnarok Thor being super-tactile because he needs to reassure himself the people he loves are still there, and... uh, well, I hope you enjoy the result. <33
> 
> Many thanks to [idioticintentions](http://idioticintentions.tumblr.com/) for the beta!

It starts out small.

It’s a steadying hand on the wall of the ship, the only thing between the survivors of Asgard and the depthless void of space. It’s the way Thor, pitching in to take inventory alongside everybody else, seems to feel the need to pick up everything he touches as though checking it’s real. It’s the way he can’t keep from running his fingers along the edge of the eyepatch when he thinks nobody’s looking.

Loki notices, of course. Thor may have learned a little subtlety over the last few years, but only a little. He assumes at first that it’s simply a consequence of Thor having lost his eye, compensating for the change in his depth perception by touching the world around him. That’s the obvious explanation. The comfortable one.

But it is not only that. Loki could hardly avoid noticing if he tried. Thor reaches out not only to the world, but to the people around him, constantly. Friends are greeted with a clap on the shoulder or a backslapping hug, no matter how recently Thor has seen them. (Heimdall is tolerant; the Valkyrie bemused. The Hulk never seems to notice, and Banner never fails to stumble a step or two and look startled.) Arms are clasped, shoulders are squeezed in reassurance, children’s hair is ruffled.

Thor has always greeted the world with open arms, a habit that Loki, wrapped protectively up in himself, long regarded as foolishness. His brother, the golden child, offers more of himself than is safe, because he cannot imagine it will not be returned to him. It was an innocence Loki could ill afford.

But Thor is no golden child now. How quickly things have changed. It still startles Loki, sometimes, to find his brother a battle-scarred king, the safety of his dispossessed people weighing heavy on his shoulders. And when he reaches out to them, it looks less like risking himself than reminding himself they are still here. They endure.

There are so few of them, and their position is so precarious. An engine failure, an outbreak of sickness, a shortage of supplies, could be all it takes to wipe them out. Little wonder Thor feels the need to prove to himself, over and over, that the worst has not happened yet.

Little wonder, perhaps, that Loki gets it more than anyone else. Thor touches his arm to get his attention, rather than call his name. If he needs to pass by, he’ll place a hand between Loki’s shoulder blades or on the small of his back, and it seems impossible for them to stand side-by-side without Thor’s arm brushing against his own. Thor even leans subtly against him when tired, in a way that he hasn’t since they were children, yawning behind their hands while the adults feasted but determined to stay awake for as long as they were allowed.

Loki finds himself thinking of their childhood often, of late. He mostly avoids examining the reasons why.

Right now, it’s late, according to the clock that they’ve set themselves. (The first few days aboard the Ark, with no day or night to guide them, were a chaos of exhausted confusion. Then they figured out how to set the lights to a schedule, and things improved somewhat.) It seems they’ve been discussing possible places to make planetfall for hours, and when Loki blinks, he sees star charts flashing before his eyes.

“I still say that system’s our best option,” the Valkyrie argues, jabbing at the map with her forefinger. “I ran into a couple of people—or, well, whatever you want to call them—from there on Sakaar. They eat the same things we do, and as long as they’re not in the middle of one of their civil wars when we land, they’ll probably be willing to trade. Plus, they make pretty good ale.”

“That may be so,” Heimdall repeats—quite patiently, considering they’ve been having this argument for the last thirty minutes. “But if they _are_ in the middle of a civil war, we’ll struggle to reach another inhabited world before we run out of food.”

Banner nods agreement. “He’s right. It’s too much of a risk.”

Loki rolls his eyes and repeats his own contribution to the debate. “And you’re _still_ all underestimating my powers of persuasion. Civil war or not, they’ll trade.” He sighs and turns to his brother. “Thor?”

The only response he gets is a sleepy rumble, and so he applies a sharp elbow to Thor’s ribs.

That causes him to sit up sharply. “I’m listening!”

“You’ve been half-asleep for ten minutes,” Loki informs him. “Not that anybody’s added anything new to the discussion in that time. Your deciding vote is required, as usual.”

Thor looks abashed. “Sorry. It’s been a very long…” He trails off, looking uncertain. No doubt it’s been longer than a day since he last slept.

“Maybe we should pick this up in the morning,” Heimdall suggests, ever-sensible. “We could all use a rest.”

The Valkyrie snorts. “Speak for yourself,” she says. “ _I_ could use a drink.” She gets to her feet and jerks her head in the direction of the door, eyes on Banner. “You coming?”

“You know I don’t—” Banner starts to say, then breaks off with a shrug. “Never mind,” he says, and follows her—as he always does, whoever he happens to be at the time.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Heimdall says. “My Prince. Your Majesty.” He inclines his head before following the others, something that might be amusement on his face, not that it’s ever really possible to tell.

Before Loki can call after him to inquire what’s so funny, he’s startled by the feeling of a warm weight on his shoulder. Thor is slumped sideways in his chair, his head coming to rest against Loki. On the table, his thumb brushes Loki’s little finger, not holding on, just lightly touching.

For a moment, Loki weighs the impulse to push him away and shake him awake. That’s what he would normally do. Or what he would have done, once, at least. Perhaps the last few years have weakened him even as they have tempered Thor, for Loki stays where he is.

It’s been a long while since anyone touched him easily, comfortably. It was Thor then, too, of course, brotherly hugs and playful roughhousing, and artless, adolescent fumblings in hidden passageways that left them both flushed and breathless. Somehow the line between those things never seemed clear-cut, or particularly important, and for a short while Loki took them for granted. And then came Jotunheim, and all Odin’s lies laid bare, and Loki was alone.

Oh, there was plenty of touching on Sakaar, of course—flirtatious strokes of the wrist; shameless grabs of the arse; plus a veritable buffet of meaningless sex on offer for those who cared to partake—but that hardly counts. Nothing on that world was natural, every word and every glance calculated to attract or repel the Grandmaster’s notice. Performance, every moment. And before that, four years wearing Odin’s guise, keeping a careful distance from even the king’s closest advisors.

Easier than the cell, of course. Loki finds himself blinking hard, afflicted with the sudden memory of Frigga’s image dissolving beneath his hands. And before _that_ the void of space, and the Other, and the cold dark of its world. At the time he’d thought light and warmth lost to him forever, the only solution to become darkness and cold.

Frowning, he reins in the wanderings of his mind. Unwise to think all that is in his past. He and Thor are reconciled, for now, but they are not what they were, and the reprieve may only be temporary. Loki shrugs Thor off his shoulder, and Thor straightens and blinks himself awake once more. His one blue eye widens when it catches sight of Loki’s expression.

“You look troubled, brother,” says Thor. “Did I miss something?”

Loki shakes his head. “I need sleep,” he says, “as do you. Go to bed.”

Thor does as he’s bid, pausing only to squeeze Loki’s shoulder as he leaves. Loki holds himself very still, but it’s an effort not to lean into the touch.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It gets no easier in subsequent days. Thor continues to reach out for him, to make his presence felt with a touch each time, and the effort of holding himself apart starts to feel more arduous than it’s worth.

Loki is far from sure what his brother intends. To rekindle what they had in their younger days? Their situation is complicated enough already—and besides, so many things are different now. Most likely, Thor will never again trust Loki enough to give himself over fully.

Perhaps that’s what makes him give in, in the end. A perverse anger flares in him when he remembers that Thor does not trust the reality of him, and especially when he remembers his brother’s words back on Sakaar.

 _That’s what you always wanted_. A manipulation, certainly. But some part of Thor must have believed it. Thought it possible, at least.

That’s what Loki intended. It should not hurt.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, they take up Valkyrie’s suggestion, and make planetfall on the nearest inhabited world. There is no war currently raging and the economy is prospering, the locals amenable to persuasion. The Grandmaster’s personal collection of wines fetches a pretty price, and they’re able to procure enough supplies that it takes the better part of an afternoon to load them onto the ship.

After weeks of careful rationing, this feels like cause for a party.

It’s no feast fit for the halls of Odin, certainly. The mess hall below decks is the only room with tables enough to seat everybody on board, and Thor would never countenance separating himself from his people, fencing himself off in the gaudy stateroom. They eat the fresh supplies first: fish and some bland purple vegetable, and a decent measure of the local equivalent to ale. It’s nothing special, but full bellies, and having felt fresh air on their faces and ground beneath their feet for the first time in weeks, seem reason enough for celebration.

Though, for some, having felt ground beneath their feet is cause for sadness. Memories, perhaps, easier to avoid while floating in the limbo of space. Loved ones who will never be buried; ancestral lands never to be seen again. There are pockets of subdued quiet among the merriment, and more than a few among the revellers slip away to bed while the night is young, smiling sadly or wiping their eyes. Perhaps wisely, Thor does not try to intervene.

He does partake a little more than wisely of the strange local ale, and smiles widely and talks with all who approach him. It’s only occasionally, in quiet moments, that a flash of melancholy crosses his face. At his side, Loki sits back and watches, a part of the festivities and apart from them, both at the same time.

He startles when he feels fingers in his hair, turning to look at his brother.

It’s late. The children are long since abed, and the adults have started to drift away in yawning groups. Thor isn’t looking at his face, eye fixed on his hands as he separates out strands of Loki’s hair.

Loki lifts an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

Thor smiles, distracted, not exactly cheerful. There’s a surprising delicacy to his movements, and Loki is reminded again that his brother is not what he once was. Or at least, not what Loki once thought he was.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Thor says.

A single braid in the hair indicates love; or mourning. And Thor has much to mourn, and no way to show it.

Loki has his sorrow too, he supposes. Or, at least, he will feel it one day. But for now there is a barrier between himself and it: the tissue of Odin’s deceptions, and his own. The golden spires of Asgard live only in memory, but the memories… well, they’re not easy to look at.

Here, now, he looks at his brother instead. Thor keeps his eyes down, focused on his task. Wary, perhaps, of being seen to want this too badly; afraid that, given the opportunity, Loki will push him away and stamp out all the progress they’ve made since that hangar on Sakaar. It’s hardly an irrational fear, after all.

Loki can’t help but pick at the scab. “Sure that’s all it is, brother?” he says, an edge to his words. Thor doesn’t even flinch. _(Predictable_ , says a small voice in the back of Loki’s mind.) “You can hardly keep your hands off me of late.”

That, at last, seems to strike a nerve. “What of it?”

“You know, if I was planning to run away I would’ve stolen the Commodore and made for some wealthy planet weeks ago. Somewhere I could live in the style to which I’m accustomed.”

Thor only laughs, a little sadly. “Are either of us accustomed to anything anymore?”

Loki can’t find an answer to that. Not one that won’t steer the conversation down treacherous paths, anyway. After a moment he sighs, reaches up, and places his hands atop Thor’s, taking over. And trying not to think about the warm strength of them and how light their touch is, about how Thor’s capacity for care has always been able to surprise him. When he was younger, Loki always thought it a little unfair, how Thor could be so ready to leap into the fight—or to start one, if there was none to be had—and then show tenderness to a child or an animal, as though he hadn’t been bellowing bloodlust and battering heads a scant few hours earlier. It made hating him so much more complicated.

It makes not hating him complicated, too. It makes Loki shiver with the memory of the few times, scattered over the centuries, he’s felt those hands on him, sure and rough and gentle in the dark of hidden corners, or their chambers in the dead of night.

He shakes away the thought. “You’re not doing it tightly enough,” he says. “It’ll come out.”

“I bow to your expertise,” Thor says, amused, but he lets himself be guided, accepting the peace offering.

It’s as well. Loki isn’t sure he’d know what to do if Thor did take seriously any of these little attempts to push him away. Now that all they once thought they knew is crumbled away, dust and smoke and wisps of make-believe, there is so little familiarity left in their lives. Even Loki once thought Asgard would always be there for him to hate. But all that’s left is this ship, and the void of space all around, and the two of them. Perhaps that’s why he is still here.

Perhaps that, as much as lack of trust, is why Thor keeps reaching out for him. After everything, he’s one of the few solid things that Thor has left.

That’s just hilarious; or, at least, it ought to be.

“What’s so funny?” Thor asks him, smiling a little though he isn’t in on the joke.

Loki shakes his head. “It isn’t, really.”

Thor just keeps looking at him, the question clear on his face. He’s sitting closer than either of them usually would, in public, not that any of the few stragglers left in the mess hall seems to be paying attention. Loki can feel the warmth coming off him, and his gaze does not waver, and for a moment Loki can’t help but wonder—

Thor glances down, and Loki realises they’ve come to the end of the braid. With a small sigh, he releases Thor’s hands, and magics a short length of silk cord out of the air with which to tie off the end.

When he’s done, Thor reaches up and lets the braid slide through his fingers, his small smile turning into something opaque; complicated. “Thank you,” he says, softly. And then, “You still haven’t answered my question.”

His hand is still in Loki’s hair, and it moves to his cheek, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. It would be so easy, he thinks, to turn his head and kiss Thor’s palm. It would be an answer, of a sort.

A solution, even.

He doesn’t do it. They are still nominally in public, after all. Instead he rises, the braid slipping from Thor’s fingers, and gives an exaggerated yawn. “I’ll tell you in the morning,” he says, and lets his hand linger on Thor’s shoulder a moment longer than it usually would.

Thor blinks and looks at it, the distraction working. He doesn’t notice the flicker of magic that runs down his back to the pocket of his cloak.

Once out of the mess hall, Loki smiles to himself and palms the keycard he stole while Thor wasn’t looking. Thor will realise it eventually, and he’ll recognise it for the answer, the invitation, it is. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It isn’t so much later, but Loki is already dozing by the time the door to the captain’s stateroom opens. The hour, or the wine, or the fact that everybody else on this ship insists on keeping their quarters ridiculously warm. He starts wide awake when the door opens, though, light from the corridor outside spilling across the room and making him blink. Thor is a shadow outlined in the doorway. Loki cannot see his face.

The lamp is too far from the bed to reach, so he conjures a flicker of golden flame into his palm to see by when the door closes and leaves it to float in the air.

Thor hovers near the foot of the bed, expression unreadable. Loki only looks back at him. He has made the first move; it’s Thor’s turn now.

And he takes it, peeling off the shirt he’s wearing and sitting at the foot of the bed, one hand twitching involuntarily toward where Loki’s bare ankle sticks out from beneath the covers. “So dissatisfied with your cabin you feel the need to steal mine?” he asks, eye twinkling in the dim light.

There’s an undercurrent of uncertainty to it, though, still. Loki can’t allow that.

Outwardly, he only makes a face. “It’s too small,” he says. “Ugly, like every other room on this ship.” Honestly, the worst thing about Sakaar might have been the Grandmaster’s taste in interior design. Loki pauses, then. “But you know that’s not why I’m here.”

Thor inclines his head. “No,” he agrees.

There’s relief in it, Loki thinks. He sits up, inching closer. For a moment they just look at one another, hesitant, breathing the same air.

It’s Loki who closes the distance, in the end. The second before Thor kisses him back feels like forever—but kiss him back Thor does, one hand curling around the back of Loki’s neck in the old, familiar gesture, keeping him close. Loki feels the old, familiar thrill down his spine, too, and if this were some other night, if they were on surer footing, he might be content to relax into it, to let himself be kissed and his brother lead the way.

But this is now, and they can’t go back. If Loki is to get anywhere with this new Asgard as his home, he needs Thor to feel sure of him again. He can hardly expect Thor to trust his words—but his body, perhaps.

After a moment, he draws back, tilting his head to take in his brother. In the flickering light, Thor still looks golden, despite the shorn hair and the eyepatch, despite the hard-won patience on his face. There’s no forgetting how changed he is, tempered in other fires than battle.

Loki has been through fires of his own, of course. How they’ve changed him… well, he’s still not entirely sure. But he can play a part for now. He’ll decide later if it suits him.

Thor meets his eyes, one eyebrow raised in question. Loki presses another quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, but sits back before it can linger. “Lie down,” he says.

Perhaps it’s testament to Thor’s newfound wisdom that he doesn’t wait to be told twice. He stretches himself out atop the mattress, pushing the snarl of covers aside and onto the floor. Loki wastes no time with boots and buckles, just waves a hand, and then Thor is bare underneath him, all that golden skin and corded muscle on show. For him, and nobody else. Unexpectedly, the pang of desire he feels is shot through with jealousy. Asgard gets the bulk of Thor’s attention, the tireless hours he spends seeing to his people and their needs. Thor’s friends, Banner and the Valkyrie and even the green beast, get the hugs and backpats and passing touches he doles out like candy. Here, like this, he’s Loki’s alone, and that is as it should be.

“You’re still very… clothed, you know,” Thor points out. “I might start wondering what you plan to do with me.”

Loki answers with another kiss, his tongue flickering into Thor’s mouth for a moment before he pulls away, his hand trailing down the planes of Thor’s chest. Thor half-sits up, chasing the kiss, but sinks back into the bed with a groan when Loki pushes at him.

“I’m planning,” Loki tells him, “to make you wait.”

“That seems unfair,” says Thor, still smiling, but there’s a little strain in his voice, his cock stirring against Loki’s thigh. _I waited so long for you to come back to me_ , he doesn’t say, but it’s there in the way his fingers curl into the backs of Loki’s thighs, the way he tips his head to one side when Loki leans down to kiss the curve of his neck.

Good as his word, for once, Loki takes his time. He drags his lips down the column of Thor’s throat in a trail of messy kisses; pauses to suck a bruise onto the skin over his collarbone. It won’t show above his clothing, but Thor will feel it there, at least for a little while. He’ll remember this. He won’t be able to doubt it.

Thor lets out a low, needy sound when Loki presses a kiss over the skin he’s marked. He’s fully hard now, huge and heavy, and when Loki looks up, his eye is closed, a faint flush creeping up his torso to stain his cheeks. It’s a satisfying sight. They’re getting somewhere, at last.

Loki lets his kisses move lower, pausing to take one nipple and then the other into his mouth, tonguing each in turn in lazy circles. Then lower still, over the muscles of Thor’s stomach, the juts of his hipbones, carefully circumventing his cock to nip at the insides of those powerful thighs. Thor bites off a groan of frustration at that, his breathing coming fast now, but he makes no protest, just tangles one hand in Loki’s hair. He only tugs lightly, but the sensation sends a shiver down Loki’s spine, making him conscious of his own need, his cock at half-mast, pressing against his underthings.

He ignores it, for now. He kisses and licks and bites and kisses again, and finally—when Thor is trembling beneath him, cursing him for an insufferable tease with a ragged edge to his voice—he reaches for the vial of oil he stowed away in a pocket before he came here. Loki warms it between his palms, a spark of magic helping it along, and then drizzles a generous amount into his palm and coats two of his fingers.

Looking up from his task, he finds Thor watching him hungrily, lips parted, eye wide and dark. A spark of humour comes back into his expression when he catches Loki’s eye.

“What do you think, brother?” he asks, voice mostly steady. “Have I waited long enough?”

Loki has half a mind to tell him no and go back to his teasing; but, amusing as the game is, that isn’t truly what tonight is about. He wants to make Thor feel him, _know_ his presence—perhaps not quite as he did in their youth, but just as intimately.

When he presses inside, one finger, then another, Thor shudders with the relief of it, and Loki feels it in every part of him. It has been so long, but the muscle memory remains: how to twist his wrist, to press in deep and crook his fingers just so, finding the spot that will make Thor tip his head back against the pillows and exhale a litany of curses.

There are other memories, too. The heat of Thor’s cock against his lips when he finally leans forward to take the head into his mouth. The taste of him, something like the sea and something like the air before rain. His hips buck up once, a single impatient thrust before he stills himself, letting Loki set the pace, give whatever he wants to.

Still patient. Still uncertain, perhaps.

It’s infuriating. And Loki finds there’s fire in his own belly, now, and the insistent strain of his cock against his pants. Abruptly, he slides his fingers out and banishes his clothing and surges up the bed to kiss Thor hard on the mouth.

“Look at me,” he says, when he pulls back and finds Thor’s eye still closed, and then feels like he might burn up in the intensity of his brother’s gaze.

“Loki,” is all Thor says, and then again, “Loki,” and then Loki is fumbling for the oil again, hands clumsy with haste and desperation.

“I’m here,” he hears himself say, and in the same breath hates it for the admission it is, and says again, “I’m here.”

He slicks himself with trembling hands and slides his cock home. It’s all overwhelming: the heat of Thor’s body, how easily it welcomes him, the way Thor grabs his arse with both hands, urging him deeper. For a moment Loki has to hold himself still and close his eyes, braced with his hands on Thor’s chest, both of them breathing through it.

Maddeningly, it’s Thor who recovers himself first. “About time,” he breathes out, voice only a little shaky, the corner of his eye creasing up with his smile.

In retaliation, Loki draws out as slowly as he can bear to, presses back inside inch by inch until their bodies are flush together. It’s torture, wonderful torture, but he draws it out for long minutes until he’s shaking with the effort of it and Thor is groaning out, “Enough, enough, you win.”

Finally, finally, he quickens his pace. With his right hand, still oil-slick, he encircles Thor’s cock and strokes him hard and fast, giving no quarter until Thor’s whole body tightens up and he comes with a muffled shout, head tipped back, sweat gleaming on the thick lines of his neck.

The feeling of it is almost enough to send Loki over the edge. He fucks in harder, desperate. Thor is grasping handfuls of his hair, Thor’s legs locked around his waist as though he means to keep Loki inside of him forever.

It’s with that thought at the front of his mind that he comes, spending himself with a rush of relief the likes of which he hasn’t felt in years.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Thor doesn’t ask him to stay, afterwards, but he arranges himself comfortably against Loki’s back, fingers combing through his hair until they find the braid he wove there earlier.

Loki lifts his head, carefully, to regard his brother. “You know—” he starts to say, and then stops, unsure, for once, of what he wants to say.

Thor raises his eyebrow. “You’re here. I know.” And he does sound as though he knows it, a simple statement of fact. “So am I, you know.”

What to say to that? There is no option that’s neither too cruel nor too sentimental, so Loki holds his tongue and lets himself simply feel the warmth that curls in his chest.

Triumph, he tells himself. That’s all.

Thor nudges his shoulder, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. “Next time,” he says, “I think I’ll make you wait a little.”

“What makes you so certain there’ll be a next time?” Loki grumbles, but Thor only settles back against the pillows and closes his eye.

“I have a hunch,” he says. “Now go to sleep. You’ve worn me out.”

“Hmph. Next time, you can do all the work,” Loki tells him.

The only answer he gets is a soft snore. Thor’s asleep already, and a moment later, Loki pulls Thor’s arm about his waist and joins him.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](ragnasok.tumblr.com)


End file.
